Christmas Wish: The First Snowflake
by kouw
Summary: Elsie wishes upon the first snowflake on Christmas Eve. AU warning. Contains a tiny bit of mature content. On hiatus for now!
1. Chapter 1

**AN: **Reposting from Tumblr.

**AU warning; sentimentality abounds.**

* * *

This is the third year she is decorating the house. Her husband - this big, burly man who courted her so properly, who had laid his heart bare to her, who told her she had healed it as it was broken - has stepped out to get the tree. It's the day of Christmas Eve and she is keeping an ear on the bell of the door in case someone comes to collect their last cards or wishes to send a telegram.

They've learned this is a quiet day and they are glad of it, for they've not yet hired someone to help them with the work. There's been no need - they can manage it well between them. Elsie has a girl from the village help twice a week with the works, the rest is well in hand: she's been Head Housemaid before she became a wife and the house isn't big.

Which doesn't mean there aren't any rooms left empty.

Elsie takes a box of Christmas decorations from the table and puts it on the chair next to it, pulls baubles out, the little clamps that keep the candles in place. The little figurines she's bought herself the previous two years (a little house and an angel - she's not bought anything this year). There are spools of ribbon in red and gold and green, the pomander she's made last year - which has to be thrown away.

She might have time to make a new one. She has a couple of oranges and a jar full of cloves and it will make the house smell like Christmas. It might even help her get a little more in the mood. She fetches the jar, finds a good solid needle and takes the orange and sets to work.

With every prick, she puts a clove, with every clove her heart feels heavy. Outside twilight is setting in, the fire is burning away merrily in the grate. The smell of the orange is all around her. She tentatively starts humming a tune, then tries singing her husband's favourite - humming the melody first and as she is adding the words, she hears the door open. There are the telltale signs of a tree being dragged in, the door closing. She hears him wipe his feet, take off his coat.

He is humming the same song and it makes her smile, she gets up, puts down her handiwork and goes to him, singing harmony to his deep, vibrating baritone.

"Ah, there you are," he says and he is looking very satisfied as he points at the tree.

"You asked for a small, full tree. I hope I've done you proud."

She reaches up to his cheek - chilled by the wind - and caresses it softly. "You always make me proud," she says. She doesn't add that she doubts she makes him very proud, that she feels rather a let-down as a wife. She is thirty-four, he has stopped celebrating his birthday and they are very happy together, so lucky to have found each other, but something is missing, something is lacking in their home and he never says it, but she sees it when he gives a child a peppermint when they accompany their mothers to the Post Office and she sees it when he helps the boys holding the cricket bat just right when they play on the village green.

She feels her heart sink every time there's a new pram being pushed out of the general store across the road.

Charles picks up the tree and follows her directions; it's looking perfect standing next to the fireplace. She pops into the kitchen, heats milk, makes them hot chocolate, takes out the mince pies that Mrs Patmore has gifted her the day before (she sometimes visits with her old colleagues, when she is getting too gloomy, when she is getting too melancholy and she cannot face the silence of home anymore - and Mrs Patmore never throws her those looks, never asks those obvious questions {how are you feeling? is everything alright? are you… well?}, simply makes her a cup of tea, just has a lovely chat).

"Hmm, that'll warm me," he says and grabs his mug with both hands.

"Is it that cold outside?" she asks in return, her mug on the mantle as she pick up the small house from the table, places it on the mantle as well.

"Smells like snow," he replies and she turns to him.

"Really?"

"Not that it smells like snow, but I ran into Mr Mason and he said he was certain it would snow before it's time to go to the Christmas service."

"My mother always said that you should make a wish on the first snowflake," she tells and she goes into the hall, steps into her boots, laces them, ties them, slips into her coat, puts on her scarf.

"Come on then!"

He follows her with her mug and they stand in front of the Post Office (their Post Office) and sip their drinks and wait.

Ten minutes pass and fifteen. A half hour and she feels Charles getting impatient. Another ten minutes.

"I'm going in, Els'. Come, I don't want you to catch your death out here."

And then she feels it, a stilling of the air, the wind dies, silence falls upon the town and there it is:

The first tiny speck of snow falls on her cheek.

She closes her eyes and wishes with fire and conviction the one wish she has held the past three years.

Then she follows her husband inside and together they decorate the tree. They hang baubles and sing - he has a lovely, steady voice - and she checks on their dinner from time to time. They dance to their own carols, have their intimate dinner by candlelight. Afterwards they sit by the fire: he reads to her as she darns until it's time to leave.

She listens to the sermon, the choir. They talk to their old friends and new ones. Elsie congratulates Mrs Mason with her blessed news (oh, she knows she shouldn't, but it's obvious now and a farmer's wife cannot afford to start her confinement as soon as she starts to show).

Elsie sees the tight set of Charles's jaw as she speaks with Mrs Mason and he only cheers up again when little Lady Mary asks him something.

She sighs deeply. While she has wished upon her snowflake, she doubts it will make a difference. All she can do for her husband is make him happy in other ways - by looking after him the best she can.

They leave the congregation and head home. Her hand is in the angular crook of his elbow, but they don't speak. She is being pulled close to him and his lips land on her temple repeatedly. When they step inside he hardly waits for her to take off her hat before kissing her softly, insistingly.

He helps her out of her coat, she gets rid of her boots, hangs her hat, pulls her scarf from her neck. They don't light the gas lamps in the hall, instead he takes her hand and she follows him upstairs, to their room. It's cold, there's snow outside on the windows and his warm hands leave a trail of goosebumps as he undresses her slowly, kissing every bit of skin her reveals.

She pulls back the covers of the bed and he lays her down. The sheets are like ice, but she knows he'll warm her soon and he sidles up against her, clad only in his underwear and he is lovely - his touch, his scent, the way he kisses her, the way he pulls the pins from her hair, the way he runs his hands over her sides, over the tops of her arms, her shoulders.

She wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him on top of her, kissing him, her nails digging into the softness of his back through his vest. Outside the world is quiet under the thin layer of snow and they move together to rid him of his vest, her of her shift -

He presses inside slowly, and she arches under him, her lower back coming off the mattress, a moan stifles in her throat. His hand palms her breast, her nipple hardened by cold and lust. He rocks her, takes his time, doesn't rush this sweet feeling of being in love and loving each other so deeply. They kiss and she widens her legs that bit more, wraps her legs around him. His hand is under her bottom now, his fingers kneading her flesh and she cries out, words of love, of pleasure. He murmurs his devotion to her, tells her that he could never love her more, could never imagine his life without her, that she is perfect to him.

Tears spill onto her cheek and she holds on as he tilts her just so. She cries out once more in bliss and a rushed flying and satisfaction. He comes without a word, shuddering above her and she cradles him between her legs, kisses his thick waving hair as he rests upon her breast. They fall asleep still entangled, the sheets and her inner thighs a little sticky - but it doesn't matter. She'll clean everything up in the morning.

* * *

By the time Twelfth Night comes rolls around, Elsie has forgotten all about her Christmas wish and she and Charles indulge in a fruitcake she's baked (neither finding the bean, until Elsie finds it lying (?) on the kitchen counter and they have a good laugh over it). Their lives return to normal, the Post Office nearly runs itself, with its rules and regulations and Charles always being good at observing them. Elsie visits with Mrs Mason, knits a little cardigan and some tiny little booties.

She can feel her husband staring at her when she works on them. It's a relief when she finally casts off and she can go back to her regular darning and decorative embroidery.

Pancake day - the 27th February 1894 - is one Elsie isn't likely to forget as she stirs the batter for pancakes in a big glass bowl and she has trouble breathing in the smell of milk and eggs as it makes her stomach turn upside down. She drops a ladle full of batter in the pan and watches the edges brown slowly, the back of her hand pressed against her mouth and her husband is behind her, pulling her close and she has to push him away, has to run to the sink, where she vomits violently.

Not that she's managed to eat anything today.

"Good heavens!"

Charles is by her side, quickly filling a glass with cool water and she takes a sip, rinses her mouth. He leads her to the kitchen table, helps her sit.

"Whatever is the matter?"

"I've been feeling so queasy the past week. Perhaps I've caught something or other," she says, though she is feeling a lot better now she's rid of what wasn't in her stomach.

"Do you want me to get the doctor?"

"No, maybe I'll just need an early night."

He is watching her with a worried face, intently, a tiny smile quirking his lips. "You know, you don't look ill."

"I don't feel ill now. It sort of comes and goes in waves. But you might want to take the pan from the hob before your pancake is burnt to a crisp."

"I've already done that."

"You think of everything, don't you." She gets up and kisses him before going back to the stove.

"Do you want yours with lemon and sugar or only sugar?"

"Are you sure you should be doing that?"

"Yes, you know it's funny, but I'm suddenly completely starving."

So she bakes them pancakes and she eats three and afterwards they do the dishes together, standing very close and she loves how he radiates warmth and makes her feel so safe.

The bell of the front door rings and a man is calling out. Charles hurries to the counter and Elsie follows him, recognising the voice of Mr Mason.

"How can we help, Mr Mason?" Charles asks, all business.

"It's a boy!" Mr Mason answers and Charles shakes his head, frowns.

"Oh, congratulations! How is Mrs Mason doing? Did everything go well?"

Mr Mason is smiling wide. "She's come through and so has the boy, we're naming him William, I want to send a telegram to her mother, she's been asking for her mother."

"I understand, we'll get you sorted," Elsie smiles back and leaves Charles to it, goes back to the kitchen, puts the plates and glasses in the cupboard. Outside it's drizzling, rain mixed with snow and…

Then it clicks.

The first snowflake. Her wish. She's not come on in weeks, in over month and she is tired and a little achy.

She sits down slowly.

It defies belief.

Of course it all adds up and any doubt is quenched when she feels a twinge in her breast (that she had before blamed on her corset needing replacing - and now she thinks that perhaps it doesn't, that it's her who's changing).

The bell rings, the door closes, his footsteps come closer.

"What's wrong?" he asks and Elsie looks up.

"I think I'm pregnant," she blurts out, without any explanation or regard for how he'll take this news. She finds she is laughing and crying at the same time. He is just staring at her.

"What are you saying?"

She gets up them, hurls herself against him, her arms around his waist, her face pressed against his broad chest and she sobs: "I think… I'm positive...I mean… It's… Do you remember that I wished upon that snowflake?"

She can feel him nod.

"I think it stuck, Charles… I think…" She pulls away again, takes his hand, puts it there where she knows their child is growing.

"I think we've been granted our Christmas wish."

* * *

**AN2: **This was supposed to be the end, but a lot of people were asking for a follow up, so I am working on that - though I cannot promise when I'll be able to write/post. First I have some serious reviewing to do!

**AN3: **This fic was inspired by: "For unto us a child is born, for unto us a son is given" (The Messiah, Handel)

**AN4:** The timeline is off, I am very sorry, but maybe you can forgive me since it is an AU? Or because it's Christmas.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Apparently, people thought this was a cute story and I have been receiving pleas to continue. Now, as a disclaimer I'd like to point out that I know very little about the liturgical year, so please excuse my mistakes. I know basically what every holiday means, what is being commemorated, but I have no idea what people actually _do_ on those days. So I am making Charles and Elsie do what I would. Yup. Prepare for the smuts. Also more teeth rotting fluff.

**voyicj** \- I hope you especially will enjoy this second chapter!** Dee**, thank you for wonderful betawork as always - I just got too impatient once again: any mistake you might find? yup. All mine. Enjoy everybody, don't hesitate to review!

* * *

"And? What did he say?"

He pushes the sheet of stamps into Miss Anderson's hands, hardly checking the payment.

"Anything special, Mrs Carson? Are you ill?" Miss Anderson asks sweetly - a little gleefully. Elsie smiles back.

"Oh no. Nothing extraordinary."

She sees Charles's face fall.

"Oh. I'll leave you be," the greatest gossip in town says and leaves the Post Office. Charles turns to her. Silence hangs around them, heavy like fog.

"So… nothing out of the ordinary?" He is making a valiant effort of keeping his tears in, but his voice cracks.

"Absolutely nothing," Elsie smiles, tugs on her gloves, puts them on the counter, quickly unpins her hat, places it next to her gloves and carelessly throws her coat over the back of Charles's desk chair. She stands before him, her hand coming to rest on her stomach, lightly, automatically.

"We're both absolutely fine. Doctor Clarkson reckons he'll not see me again for a good few months."

He is staring at her, looking rooted to the spot.

"He says we can expect our baby in September."

He still doesn't speak, but sinks down heavily in his chair, reaches out for her. She grabs his hand, steadying him. He gently pulls and she finds herself sitting on his lap.

"You frightened me," he says, his voice terribly quiet.

"Frightened you?" she asks and she pushes back the curl that falls over his forehead. He takes her hand in his, presses a kiss on her palm.

"Maybe that is the wrong word. I don't know… I prayed for this," he confesses and she lets him rest his head against her, kisses his hair repeatedly.

"We both did, I think."

"Since Pancake Day and you told me you thought you were... " he swallows hard.

"It's only been a week and I know I said I _thought_ I was pregnant, but really, I was quite sure."

"And just now you said there was nothing special and I felt so…"

"Oh my love!" Elsie exclaims and cuddles him closer. "I couldn't very well tell you the news in front of Clara Anderson, now could I? The whole town would know and we'd not be able to share our good news with our friends ourselves."

He nods.

"What did Doctor Clarkson tell you?"

"He simply confirmed my suspicions. He poked and prodded me a bit. You know, I think his accent is even thicker than mine!"

"It might be, I never paid much notice. I am trying to pay notice to you now, so…" He is impatient, wants to know everything, all that's been said, all that's been promised.

"He asked me a few questions and told me to be careful and that if all goes well, this little one will join us in September, like I said before."

"September…"

He cups her cheeks in his hands. Kisses her softly. "You can't know how happy you make me…"

"I have a fair idea…" she replies in between kisses.

"I've always loved you, Els, and I've been so happy… but this… I've no words."

She understands perfectly. For years she has hoped they would be blessed with a child - because it would somehow be the crowning glory of their love. Because she is so intensely happy with Charles, who loves her so fully in return. She had been quite sad that month after month there had been no sign and her wish upon the snowflake had been her last resort. Had she not conceived that night (for there was not doubt it had happened as the snow fell down, silencing the world, making him so gentle and tender, making her so receptive to his touch) she would have given up hope and she would have found happiness in something else.

She is certain that a woman's life is just as fulfilling and meaningful if she doesn't bear children.

But she is thankful. She is so terribly grateful and she only nods and a tear spills from her eye upon her cheek.

"I love you…" she whispers and he holds her close, she can feel his breath warm on her neck and she closes her eyes for a moment.

She quickly steps off his lap when she hears the first faint tinkling of the doorbell. she smoothed down her dress, wipes away the other tears that had followed and kisses her husband quickly before disappearing in the house.

They have their dinner in silence, punctuated by stolen kisses (he steals them) and shy smiles and blushes (both hers). Afterwards they do the dishes together - he tells her to get off her feet, she rolls her eyes at him (lovingly, always with love). They make tea. It's Lent, but she feels Charles deserves a treat to celebrate this auspicious occasion and she puts a custard tart on a plate, grates a little extra nutmeg on.

She plants herself on the sofa and cosies up close.

"Congratulations…" she whispers when he's finished his custard tart.

"Oh my darling girl…"

He puts the plate on the table and gets up. He puts one arm around her back and one under her legs and he is just about to lift her when she protests:

"You can't! I know you are strong, but… what if…"

_What if you were to drop me?_

He kisses her forehead, pushes stray locks behind her ears, touches her cheek so softly.

"You must rest," he says and she smiles at him. He's always been considerate, but never so thoughtful, so careful. She nods. Indulges him. The novelty of it all will wear off soon enough, she thinks.

"Leave it," he suggests and she shakes her head.

"You're going to spoil me, aren't you?," she says and he envelops her in his arms, presses her against his chest, kisses the top of her head.

"Just this once. Indulge me."

And she does, because she cannot find it in herself to refuse him, not when he looks at her with that warmth and wonder. So she follows him upstairs and undresses the ways she always does. She cleans her teeth, washes her hands and takes off her corset and slides in between the sheets.

He is in his vest and shorts and she lays herself against him. He is so very still next to her - perhaps it's the cool night air, she thinks - and she kisses his shoulder repeatedly, runs her hand over his chest. Pushes herself against him, lets her hand drift down.

He's never this unresponsive.

"Charles?"

"Yes?"

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing."

A sure sign there is something the matter, of course. She sits up a bit, her shift falling from her shoulder, giving him an enticing look down her cleavage (and it may be perception, it may be her imagination, but it seems like there is more to see these days). She can feel him hold his breath.

"What is it?"

"Do you think we should?" he asks, his voice very small for such a big man.

"Should what?"

"You know..."

He is looking up to the ceiling, her hand is still on his thigh - it's tense, he is radiating warmth.

"Why shouldn't we?" She keeps her voice as quiet as he does.

"I don't want to hurt you... Or that something happens..."

She smiles in the dark, her free hand drifting to her navel. Still flat there, but there's a firmer part lower, just a little higher than where the curls that cover her sex start.

"I don't think anything will happen. And didn't we make love last night? And the night before?"

She turns over so she can look at him and he is smiling a little now. She leans up and kisses his cheek.

"And really, you've never once hurt me before, so there is nothing for you to worry."

She pushes herself up more, slides her leg over him. The blankets fall down; she shivers. She can feel him under her, growing hard, his hands rub her hips. She slides over him, pulls the ribbon from the end of her plait. Untangles the hair, shakes it loose. He hisses, his hardness now insisting against her.

She lets herself fall forward slightly, wriggles. He catches her wrist in his hand, kisses the palm before releasing her. He grabs her shift by the hem and raises it over her head. The cool night air leaves her nipples pebbled, slightly aching. Goosebumps rise everywhere. His hands are warm as he weighs her breasts, gently palms them.

She puts a hand over his. "Nothing to worry about," she breathes more than speaks.

"You're beautiful," he tells her so honestly, he almost makes her cry, but before her tears can fall, he is pulling her underwear apart and he manoeuvres her (all these years of practice put to excellent use) so he can slide inside.

She rises and falls slowly, her hands on his chest for balance. Her breath hitches now and then. He watches her and she bites her lip.

"Are you sure I am not hurting you?"

"Positive," she gasps and slows. Then stops. She carefully slides off him and lies back on the bed.

"Come," she says and he is over her, kissing her collarbone, the swell of her breast. He nimbly unties her underwear and slides them down. His fingertips slide over her skin, his lips leave little marks. She closes her eyes, lets him love her until she reaches that ultimate feeling that chases all thought away and she is only body and sense.

* * *

The nausea is gone and she is feeling quite energetic again. More like herself. But with added bonus. She's still not showing much, but without her corset on there's a decided little bulge that assures her that it pays off to wish upon a snowflake.

It's Saturday afternoon, the day before Easter and Charles has closed the Post Office. He is in his little office while she is baking shortbread. That is a thing that's changed: she is constantly famished and longing for food that isn't available - raspberries, clementines - or things that remind her of her childhood. Hence the shortbread. She remembers her mother making them for Sunday treats and so here she is, kneading and chilling and shaping the dough.

She checks the oven and pulls out the last sheet of perfectly golden brown biscuits and she cannot wait until tomorrow.

She can't wait until they've cooled and have crisped up perfectly - she puts them on the cooling rack and takes four. She lays them on a plate and makes her way to his study. She can hear him muttering from the hall and she pushes the door open to find him sitting at his desk, sheets of paper strewn over the floor, his head resting in his hand. He is scribbling and scratching and huffing.

"I come bearing gifts," she announces herself (she wonders when she'll not be able to sneak up on him anymore - imagines her belly will grow heavy and her tread with it).

He looks up a little bleary eyed.

"What's that?" he asks.

"Shortbread biscuits. I thought you might like one. Straight out of the oven."

He nods, sighs deeply. Elsie puts the plate on the desk and picks up a messy looking piece of paper from the floor.

"What are you doing?"

"Calculations."

"What kind of calculations?"

"I don't know if we can really afford a child, Elsie… I mean… It's going to be… I don't know… I feel wholly unprepared."

Elsie laughs, joyfully shaking her head at him. "You worry too much."

She sits down on his lap, kisses his cheek. "The baby won't need much."

"What do you mean? Of course the baby will need… I don't know what a baby needs!"

He is getting himself into a right state.

"We'll need a crib. That's important. And yes, we'll need to buy some nappies and we'll be using more soap, but that's not something to worry about, is it?"

"But… what about… I don't know? Food and…"

She looks at him with a tiny smile playing upon her lips. "Who do you think will feed our baby, Charles?"

He returns her look with a confused frown. "Charles… " she coaxes and then it hits him and he blushes almost scarlet. He coughs and Elsie laughs.

"Eat your biscuit, Charles. All will be well."


End file.
